Holy Sonnet 10: Death, Be Not Proud

John Donne

1572 to 1631

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From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

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